I risk a glance at Jake. He is staring at the monitor like he’s hypnotized. His eyes are shiny, and when he realizes I’m looking at him, he doesn’t bother to even hide his emotion.
“That’s our baby,” he says, voice rough.
I hold his gaze for a moment and then turn away, overwhelmed by all the feelings happening in this room.
“Everything looks great,” she says finally, wiping the gel away with a towel. “Baby is growing beautifully. Any questions?”
Jake pulls out his phone and opens his notes app. “I have a few,” he says. “When can we find out the sex of the baby?” He pauses and turns to me, “I mean if that’s something you want to know?”
“I do.”
“Around twenty weeks,” Dr. Nelson says. “We’ll get that scheduled before you leave today.”
“And movement? When will she start feeling the baby move?”
“Usually between sixteen and twenty weeks for first-time moms.”
He types furiously. “Are there any specific activities she should avoid?”
“No high-impact or contact sports,” Dr. Nelson says, smiling. “But yoga, walking, swimming are all excellent. I see here you’re a yoga instructor?”
“I am,” I say.
“Then you’re already very in tune with your body. Listen to it. If something feels off, stop and call us. Otherwise, you can keep moving.”
Jake asks about sleep positions and what qualifies as a real emergency and which symptoms are normal versus “call us immediately.” He’s thorough without being obnoxious, and by the time he’s finished, Dr. Nelson looks genuinely delighted with his level of investment.
“Those are all great questions,” she says. She prints several ultrasound photos and hands them to me. “We’ll see you next month, but call if anything worries you in the meantime.”
“Thank you,” I say.
Once she’s gone, Jake offers me his hand to help me sit up. I take it, and together we look down at the glossy black-and-white images in my lap. There are three. In one, the baby’s hand is right up near its face.
“I still can’t believe that’s real,” he says quietly.
“I know.”
“Can I…” He hesitates for the first time all morning. “Can I have one of these? If that’s okay?”
Something in my chest cracks. The way he’s looking at the photos, like they’re the most precious thing he’s ever held, makes my defenses wobble. I’ve been telling myself this is just a partnership. Just logistics and doctor’s appointments and figuring out how two strangers raise a babytogether.
But Jake’s not looking at these pictures like logistics. He’s looking at them like he’s already in love.
And that terrifies me. Because it would be so easy to let myself believe in this. In him. In the idea that maybe I don’t have to do everything alone.
I can feel my walls trying to slam back into place, that familiar instinct to protect myself from disappointment. But then I look at his face again, at the genuine wonder there, and something in me softens despite my best efforts.
“You want one?” I ask, keeping my voice neutral even though my heart is pounding so loud I’m sure he can hear it.
“Yeah.” He gives a small, almost sheepish smile.
“Of course.” I pass him the “waving” one. “Take this one.”
He takes it carefully, then pulls out his wallet. He slides the picture into one of the clear slots, right where a photo ID would go, and holds it up for me to see.
“Perfect,” he says, grinning.
Jake Reyes is standing there with an ultrasound photo tucked into his wallet, looking like someone just handed him the moon, and it’s threatening to make me feel hope. Which is exactly why I shut that feeling down. Hope is a liar. Hope is the thing that shows up with confetti and then forgets to stick around when the mess hits. I know better.
